I See a Darkness
by splashdown
Summary: Dean and Sam. Some demons.


Found this on my old computer. Doesn't have anything to do with the current plot. Just worked hard on it so I thought I'd do something with it.

I See a Darkness

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_! Sam, be _gentle_ with her! She's like a woman, you gotta be _smooth_," Dean said, clutching the passenger door's armrest, his dark-stained fingers white from the pressure.

Sam turned and glared at him, and Dean felt the Impala speed up significantly. His fingers pressed upon the armrest again, and he shook his head, fighting the pain that threatened to overtake him. He took a deep breath, as deep as his body would allow before he felt as though his skin was being seared off by the sharpest of knives.

"Is this what you're like on a date? Never pegged you for a wild man, Sammy." From the corners of his eyes, Dean snuck a look at his brother. Sam had had a tough night; the hunt they were on didn't turn out to be as easy as they first thought, and Sam had ended up watching in horror as his big brother was held down and beaten.

Not that Dean hadn't put up one hell of a fight. The man the Demon was possessing had come off worse, Dean was sure; he'd felt the bones shatter in the son-of-a-bitch's face as his fist had made contact. Dean smiled as he focused on his hand. Through the caked-on dirt he could see the faint color of blood encrusted in the crevices between his knuckles. Yeah, that had felt _good_.

But Sam hadn't thought so. Dean had all but overtaken the man by the time Sam had broken free of the ropes that had bound him to one of the wooden posts in the barn. All he had left to do was help perform the exorcism, which turned out to be the easiest part of the hunt. But only because it didn't exist.

Before Dean had a chance to send the Demon back to Hell, a large cloud of black smoke poured from the man's mouth and vanished right before his eyes. With an aggravated cry—or was that pain?—he sank to his knees and stared vacantly at the man's lifeless body until he felt Sam's hands under his shoulders, lifting him to his feet.

They didn't even wait around to see if the man was alive or if he had simply been knocked unconscious from the pain of Dean's wrath. Sam had assisted his brother to the car, a task that had hindered Dean more than actually helped him, and once he was inside the familiar confines of his own tiny home—the only home that had ever really made sense after his mother's death—he allowed himself to writhe in pain until his brother had opened the driver's side door and crawled in himself.

Now, pressing his hands into the armrest was all Dean could do not to shout out from the sharp, throbbing aches that screamed from his abdomen and chest. But Sam had been through enough for one night; listening to his big brother moan and groan would only drive his recklessness further.

Dean's body smashed into the side of the Impala as Sam cranked the wheel and pulled into the parking lot of a worn-looking road-side motel. He bit down on his lower lip with all the strength he could muster and tasted the blood as it trickled onto his tongue. He watched Sam's hands shake as he turned off the ignition and stormed into the motel's pint-sized lobby. A few minutes later, Dean followed his little brother's lanky figure as he stalked toward room seven on the ground floor. He grimaced as he rolled down the window.

"Uh, Sam? Little help here?"

But Sam just turned and glared again, his eyes both hollow and piercing, and Dean said no more as he slowly opened the door. Leaning his weight against the cold of the window, his right hand grasped the hood of the car while his left found solace clutching at his side, trying to keep whatever blood and bones that were attempting to spill out inside his body. He could hear his breathing, rough and ragged, as he stumbled toward the motel room.

"Thanks for leaving the door open, buddy. I appreciate it," he said through clenched teeth, shooting a glance at Sam, who was sprawled out face-up on the nearest bed, staring up at the yellowing ceiling. Dean waited for Sam to look over at him, for his gaze to shift even the slightest bit, but his only movements were the clenching of his jaw and the drawing of his eyebrows.

Dean shut the door and moved toward his bed, silently thanking his little brother for being so _generous_ in his bed-picking abilities. Before sitting, he stopped to look at his reflection in the dusty mirror hanging upon the wall. He let out a low breath at what he saw: blood was crusted over his face, his neck, his clothing. There were speckles of blood and dirt mixed into his hair, along with broken pieces of hay. The rest of his skin was covered with mud.

"Yeah, that's real attractive," he muttered to himself as he reached to brush out the hay from his hair and immediately winced. He looked down at his body, which was just as bad as the upper half of him, and took a deep breath before slowly moving aside his shirt, revealing skin covered in cuts and the beginnings of darkened bruises. Blood rushed out of a deep wound right below his rib cage, and he sucked in a quick breath as the fresh air hit it.

"Sammy, throw me a towel, would you?" When his brother didn't move, Dean hitched up his shirt a bit more and continued. "Hey, earth to Sam. Throw me a God damn towel or you're gonna be the only remaining Winchester come tomorrow morning, you hear me?"

After a moment Sam moved. He rolled off the bed and walked swiftly into the bathroom. Seconds later, he flung a bright white towel at Dean and sat back down onto his bed, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

"What the hell's your problem? You're not the one who got his ass handed to him back there. I mean, seriously. I don't see your entire supply of blood spewing out your stomach through a cut the size of Kansas," Dean said, gently pressing the towel to his stomach as he sucked in another breath.

"Yeah, well, you're not the one who had to watch it all from the sidelines because you were tied to a _post_," Sam said in a low, raspy voice, his eyes boring holes into the wall in front of him.

"You shouldn't have been there in the first place, Sam. I told you to stay away; I told you I _got_ this one," Dean answered, his voice rising alongside his anger. He shifted the towel, searching for a clean spot. "I don't know if you remember, but the last time you were around a Demon, you shot me in the freakin' shoulder!"

"That wasn't my _fault,_ Dean! I couldn't stop myself; you _know_ that," Sam roared in response, jumping to his feet. "You shoul—…" He stopped short and stared at the once-white towel that Dean was holding against his abdomen. "Dean," he said, breathing out, his eyes narrowing as he took in Dean's appearance. "You're bleeding."

"_Asshole_."

---

Sometimes he wanted to kill him. He could never go through with it, of course—not when he was _himself_, at least. But in his angriest moments, he could visualize the swing of the knife as it sliced through the air and the stiffness of the blade as it twisted into his chest. As soon as his mind registered Dean's face and he felt the warm blood on his fingers, Sam knew his anger would subside. It's just, sometimes, he wanted to _kill_ him.

Now was one of those times.

Dean told him to wait in the car. In the car. In the _car_. Of all places. There was a Demon inside, haunting some innocent man, and he was just supposed to sit back and wait in the car? For how long? Hours, minutes, days? What happened if Dean never came out?

Like _hell_ Sam was waiting in that car. He spent enough time in there, obeying Dean's orders and listening to his back-alley mullet music. It was time for action.

He waited until Dean's moonlit shadow evaporated into the barn, counted to twenty (though he may have skipped a few numbers in between), and quickly jumped out of the car, heading straight back to the trunk. With a quick flick of the wrist, he jammed the key into the hole, and the door popped open. Sam pocketed the keys, patting his jeans to make sure they were deep inside and began rummaging through the boxes and bags for ammo.

He slid a gun between his lower back and the rim of his pants and put a few extra bullets in the key-less pocket before sliding a knife up his sleeve. Sam stopped and stared at his wrist for a second. Maybe having a knife right above his veins wouldn't be the best idea, especially not with a psychopathic Demon around. He nodded to himself and placed the knife inside his inner coat pocket. He searched around for a few seconds more and hoped Dean had everything they needed as he shut the trunk as quietly as he could.

From there, Sam looked around, making sure he was alone before swiftly running toward the barn, crouching ever so slightly in the moonlight. He pressed himself up against the side of the wall and listened closely. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of his anxious breathing, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Sam turned his head and looked both ways before ducking into a tiny opening, a hole in the wall rising only a few feet above the muddy ground.

His nostrils burned from the stench as soon as he crawled inside. "Oh, come on," he whispered and, checking his surroundings, slowly got to his feet as he fanned the air in front of his nose for clean breathing. Long rows of metal sheets stood in front of him; Sam wasn't sure what they were used for, but he knew he didn't want to be here long enough to find out. He quietly crept down one aisle, looking over his shoulder every three steps. As he approached the end, he saw light spilling out from the corner of the room, and he hurriedly wound his way through the metal maze until he found the source.

The light was dim, almost as if the bulbs were about to expire. Through the doorway, though, Sam could make out his brother's figure in between wooden posts across the wide hay-filled room. He inched his way through the entrance, concentrating on the exchange he knew Dean must be having with the Demon but heard nothing except the quiet crunching underneath his feet. Sam slunk from wooden post to wooden post and soon Dean's voice finally fell upon his ears.

"Cut the crap," he heard his brother say flatly. "Your evil Demon hoodoo isn't gonna work on me." Sam took another step. Another.

"It worked on your brother," the Demon replied as a laugh formed deep in the possessed man's throat. "And your father; isn't that right? It's become a bit of a family tradition." Another step. Another. He was getting so close. This would all be over soon. Another step.

"Yeah, well. My dad fought the son-of-a-bitch, and I will, too." Sam stopped short, letting the words Dean spoke wash over him. He didn't realize he had moved until Dean's eyes flickered over and caught his own, and before Sam could react, the Demon yielded his powers and knocked both brothers backward against separate wooden posts.

The man walked closer and closer to Sam, his arms outstretched in two directions, each pointing at a different Winchester. Sam struggled to get free, and through the man's legs he could see Dean doing the same, his forehead scrunched in concentration. He could hear his brother yelling his name until another voice drowned him out.

"Sam," the man said, a smile formulating upon his thin lips. "My, how you've grown." The man looked up and his eyes grew black; all at once, Sam felt ropes binding him to the post, disabling his movements. The Demon dropped his arm and his smile grew wider. "That's better." And with that, he turned back toward Dean, leaving Sam to struggle for freedom.

With a frustrated kick to the muddy ground, he realized he should've kept the knife in his sleeve.

---

Dean pulled the towel away from his wound and reapplied the pressure with another clean spot. He looked up at his brother and drew his brow. "Of course I'm bleeding, Sam. Where d'ya think all this blood came from?" He paused momentarily. "You know, for a college boy, you're pretty stupid."

Sam's mouth moved silently for a moment, and he reached toward the end table, picking up the car keys. Dean watched as his brother walked quickly toward the door. "Where the hell are you going?" He asked roughly, cringing as he craned his neck.

"We, uh. We passed a gas station a few miles back. I'm going to see if they've got anything to clean you up," Sam replied, grabbing the door handle.

"Hey," Dean called out, and Sam reappeared in the doorway, clearly frustrated. He always did that girly lean-on-one-hip pose as his eyes rolled toward the ceiling out of impatience or something similar (actually, maybe his eyes _fluttered_). Sometimes Dean wasn't certain how they were related. Or, at least, how Sam wasn't short for Samantha.

"What, Dean?"

"Bring me back some of those little chocolate balls, would ya?"

The door slammed, and Dean was left alone. He looked back up into the mirror at his reflection and stared into his eyes, watching as his pupils dilated. He brought his free hand up to his face and wiped at a smear of blood staining the skin on his left cheekbone.

"Asshole," he repeated, though this time he wasn't sure who he was talking to.

---

Sam panted in annoyance as he worked his body left and right, but the ropes wouldn't budge. He watched as the Demon walked closer to Dean and wondered what was going to happen to them. What the Demon was going to do to them.

He remembered the feeling of fire, fire in his heart and fire in his bones. Flames all around him, burning him. He remembered hearing the Demon's voice whispering in his brain. To hunt, to hurt. To kill.

The Demon bent closer to Dean, his hand still outstretched, preventing Dean from stirring. Sam could see Dean's mouth moving but couldn't make out the words. Suddenly, the Demon stretched his fist and Dean's arms flew out to his sides, his body stretching simultaneously. Sam saw Dean's eyes widen and began struggling more frantically than before. He felt the ropes move the tiniest bit and hope flooded his body. They would get out of this; _Sam_ would get Dean out of this.

The Demon turned back toward Sam, his face lit up in evil glee. "Word down below, Sam, is that you desperately love watching your big brother struggle. Watching the life being sucked out of him. Watching him _bleed_." He smiled and his black eyes were sparkling even in the dim light. "Today is your lucky day."

---

He wasn't sure how long he was alone. Ten minutes, ten hours. All he felt was this blackness surrounding him, this constant darkness inching closer and closer every time he took a breath. It wasn't death. No, he knew what dying felt like. He was, as Sam had so nicely put it, like a cockroach.

Then what was this?

Dean looked up into the mirror again and shook his head.

This was fear. Fear of the unknown used to give him the highest of highs. That's what he lived for, chasing the unfamiliar and the uncertain and the (un)dead. But now there was this knot in his stomach, and everyday it grew. He hated it, and he tried to ignore it, but everyday it grew.

When his dad told him he might have to kill Sam, Dean didn't believe him. There's no way that could be possible; there's no way he was serious. But when John pulled back and Dean stared into his eyes, into his _tears_, he didn't know what to think. And the next moment John was gone, and Dean understood what his dad had meant. But he didn't want to believe it.

He lived with weight on his shoulders everyday. The weight of finding the yellow-eyed Demon, the weight of locating and killing every evil son-of-a-bitch he could, the weight of keeping himself alive long enough to find out all the answers to all the questions that plagued his mind on a daily basis. But none of that compared to the weight of protecting his little brother, of keeping him safe.

He did what he could. He had saved Sam's ass more times than he could remember, and he was always glad to do it. After all, that's what brothers—families, really—do for each other. They _save_ each other. But even so, Dean couldn't help but blame his own: his mom, for dying, though he knew this was too brash; his dad, for sacrificing himself, for putting this burden onto Dean's shoulders, for giving in too quickly; and now his brother, for being a freak with some weirdo psychic power, for fighting too hard, for not fighting hard enough. And usually, he blamed himself for the same reasons.

No, it wasn't that Dean was afraid of facing and chasing the unknown. It was that he was afraid of facing and chasing the unknown without Sam.

---

As Dean's piercing yells rang in Sam's ears, he felt his body go still, even though his mind was screaming to keep fighting. He couldn't tear his eyes away from his brother's body, his brother's face, as he was kicked and thrown and cut and ripped (Dean's eyes never looked away from the Demon, not for one moment; sometimes Sam wondered how his brother could be so proud, even in the darkest of situations). Sam tried yelling out, yelling to stop, to hurt _him_ instead, but nothing came out of his mouth; the words seemed trapped in his throat, caught at some invisible line they weren't allowed to cross.

Finally, the Demon stopped torturing Dean, and he lay motionless on the ground. Sam couldn't even tell if he was breathing and didn't dare remove his eyes from his brother's slacken body even as the Demon took a few steps closer to him.

"This, Sam. _This_ is what's in store for you. _This_ is what you're going to be," the Demon said slowly, as if every word tasted more delicious than the next. As he spoke, he stretched his arms out in some sick form of glory. Sam stared up at the Demon as Dean began to stir; he breathed even louder than before, masking his brother's movement, and finally Sam met those beady black eyes with his own.

"Ahh," he said to the Demon, his head tilting in that cocky way he picked up from Dean. "That's where you're wrong."

"Dead wrong," Dean shouted from behind the Demon, and as he flung his flask forward, the Demon shrieked and fell to his knees, smoke billowing up in tiny puffs. "Holy water. Don't you bastards ever learn?"

Sam watched as Dean, blood covering his entire body, jumped on the man and started throwing punches to his face, his throat, his chest—anywhere and everywhere—barely taking breaths in between. Sam continued to struggle with the ropes and finally freed his hands just as Dean took one final swing. Dean looked up and caught Sam's eye as he reached into his coat for their dad's old journal, ready to perform the exorcism.

"You alright?" Dean asked him, getting to his feet

Sam nodded and turned around to untie his other hand. Yeah, he was alright. He heard Dean practically admit that Sam wasn't strong enough, but he was alright. He could almost feel the fire in his veins again, but he was alright. He nearly cost his brother his life (_again_), but _yeah_, he was alright.

He was so alright he barely noticed the Demon's black soul rise from the mouth of the man and vanish into the darkness of the ceiling. He was so alright he practically dragged Dean out to the Impala, disregarding his cuts and bruises and shouts of protests. He was so alright he never noticed the blood that poured from his brother's side the entire time.

He was so alright that maybe he wasn't at all.

---

Dean jumped as he heard the key jam into the lock of the motel door. Pain shot up his spine and he bit down on his already-cracked lip to stop from shouting. He saw Sam come through the door, throw the keys back onto the table, and sit down near him, a brown sack filled to the rim balancing on his knee.

Dean leaned over as much as his body would allow and peeked inside the paper sack. "You get that candy?" He asked Sam, raising his eyebrows in question.

Sam sighed loudly and glared at him.

A moment of silence passed between them. "Seriously," Dean finally said, motioning his head toward the bag.

"Would you let me clean you up first?" Sam responded, his eyes narrowing. He set the bag on the bed and stood, and Dean felt himself being forced to stand, as well. He felt like a small child with a scraped-up knee after falling off his bike. Not that he ever had that memory for himself. He only guessed as much.

Sam led him into the bathroom and helped him sit down on the toilet seat; Dean quietly watched his brother pad around under the sink, grab more towels, and walk out of the room, returning moments later with the paper sack in his arms, which he at once began rummaging through. Dean looked at each item Sam placed on the counter with vague interest: rubbing alcohol; gauze; cotton balls; a box of small band-aids, to which he sniffed in amusement; a box of large band-aids, to which he murmured a soft "oh"; a bottle of off-brand aspirin; cough syrup ("Cough syrup, Sammy? What do I got, the Black Lung?"); and a giant Ace bandage.

"Where's m—…" He started, sitting up a little straighter.

"Shut up," Sam interrupted.

Dean moved back instinctively as Sam leaned toward him but was silenced with another glare. Sam moved Dean's shirt, pulling at it softly so as not to get it caught in one of his cuts. Dean laughed low in his throat.

"What?" Sam asked, stopping and looking up.

"You really are a frisky little guy, aren't you?"

"Funny," he replied, blowing air out of his nose. He continued working the shirt off of Dean, ordering him to lean forward or suck in, to which Dean cringed each time. Finally Sam stood up and threw Dean's blood-soaked shirt into the bathtub.

Dean saw Sam's eyes widen and looked down. Where earlier there had only been the beginnings of bruises now were dark purple and black spots all along his abdomen and chest; the gash on his left side had finally subsided a bit, but the blood was still wet and thick and matted onto his skin. He looked back up and noted that Sam was still staring at his chest, his eyes glazed over.

"….._Awk_ward…." he said, focusing on the items on the counter.

Sam shook his head and looked at Dean's face. "I was just... Dean, I—" He began but quickly fell silent, pinning his bottom lip in between his rows of teeth. Dean kept his gaze on the counter.

"I know," he replied, his voice rough and low. He nodded his head twice. "I know." He blinked.

"No, Dean. No. I just… I wanted to be in there; I wanted to help."

"And I wanted you to stay in the car, Sam. That's why I told you, 'Stay in the car,'" Dean said, his voice growing louder.

"You can't always protect me!" Sam retorted, his own voice raising. Dean snapped his eyes toward Sam's and silence fell between them. Dean looked at his brother for a few moments and shifted his eyes to the floor.

"I know," he said, finally voicing the thoughts he had feared for so long. "I know I can't. But damn it, Sammy. You gotta let me _try_."

Sam stood still for a moment before bending down. Dean watched him grab the cotton balls and the rubbing alcohol from the counter and lean toward him.

"This is probably going to sting," he said.

"Shut up," Dean replied. He moved his arm back a few inches to allow Sam an easier view of his wound. He closed his eyes and waited to feel the pain wash over him; he didn't have to wait long. He felt Sam's fingers brush against his skin and winced immediately. The rubbing alcohol was cold and wet and pain seared through his abdomen.

He kept telling himself he deserved this, he deserved this, he did this to himself. He should've been quicker, stronger. He shouldn't have waited so long to attack.

He shouldn't be so afraid. He's not a girl. He may not have chosen this job in the first place, but he's the one who continued to tread down that same beaten path. He's here and Sam's here and there's nothing to be done about that. Not anymore.

Sam will get through this. _He_ will get through this. Someday soon, this will all be over.

"It's over," he heard Sam say, and Dean quickly opened his eyes, confused. He looked down at himself and realized Sam had cleaned him up, had patched him up and had made him look whole again. He started to stand, and Sam handed him a plastic cup filled with water, placing three small pills into the palm of his hand. Dean slowly moved his arm toward his face and jammed the pills into his mouth, taking a chug of water. He threw his head back and swallowed, relishing the cold water as it washed down his dry throat.

"Dean," Sam said, and as Dean looked up at his little brother, he knew what he was going to ask. Sam cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets. "We're gonna get through this, right?"

He paused a moment and looked down at his bandages and bruises, then looked back up at Sam. "Yeah," he replied quietly. "We are."

Sam smiled faintly and turned toward the door, throwing the red-stained towel into the bathtub alongside Dean's shirt. Dean turned his head and stared into the tub for a few seconds, transfixed by the amount of blood layering the bottom, trickling ever-so-slowly toward and down the drain. He took a deep breath and followed Sam out of the door before he remembered something.

"Where the _hell_ is my candy?"


End file.
